One Poppy at a Time
by Obscurity Within Mercy
Summary: So they spread their memories, one poppy at a time.


**So. A little drabble thingy for Remembrance Day today. It doesn't make any sense, but I claim no responsibility as the thing kind of started writing itself after the first, oh, paragraph or so. **

**Any and all things Remembrance Day related discussed are heavily based off of how we celebrate here in Canada. Because I'm Canadian. So yeah. **

**Three pages in Word. Long-ish drabble, I suppose.**

**Please review at the end. Seriously, I want feedback on this. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Nope, nada. I also don't own the poem In Flanders Fields. I also don't own the song Forgotten Years, which is by Midnight Oil. You guys should listen to it. Yeah.**

* * *

_At the eleventh hour _

_Of the eleventh day_

_Of the eleventh month_

_We remember..._

That was probably the hardest part of being a nation. It wasn't the politics. It wasn't the endless duties that came with being the personification of a country. It wasn't the pain of watching those you were friends with- normal humans- die of old age while you lived on, eternal.

It wasn't even the wars. It wasn't the pain felt when your country was invaded, overtaken, bombed, while your people died and died and _died_.

No. That wasn't it. The hardest part of being a nation was _remembering_.

Because they could never forget. Not only would it have been wrong to forget, but it wouldn't have been possible even if one tried. To forget one's own history, no matter how painful or bloody, was like removing a part of yourself. Many scars still remained, both physical and emotional, and they would forever. How could someone forget?

But even if one could never forget, that didn't mean it didn't hurt to remember. Because it did. It hurt like hell. Remembering was painful and it could bring even the strongest nation to tears. It was worse than the actual war because it was like reliving countless wars again all at once.

But no matter how hard it was, no nation would have it any other way.

Because remembering also brought them together.

_The hardest years, the darkest years, the roaring years, the fallen years _

_These should not be forgotten years _

_The hardest years, the wildest years, the desperate and divided years _

_We will remember, these should not be forgotten years_

They didn't always remember the bad times. Sometimes, they would remember the good times. They would smile and celebrate, and remember the happy times instead of the times they tried to slit each other's throats.

But not today.

Not on the eleventh day of the eleventh month. To some nations, it was called Remembrance Day.

That day was specifically set aside to remember the horrors of past wars. On that day, most of the nations would gather up together, even if they did not have an official holiday set aside on that day for the sake of remembering. Because it didn't matter if their people were also remembering on that day. They were, and that was enough.

When they met, they all brought one poppy each. A single, red, red poppy.

For what was better to symbolize the red, red blood spilled in war?

How did that poem go?

_In Flanders fields the poppies blow_

_Between the crosses, row on row..._

The nations would gather together and take their poppies with them. They would place them together, in a pile, in the center of the room they were in. They would do so in silence. One poppy at a time, the pile would grow bigger, and bigger. The memories, too, would grow closer and closer to the surface of every nations mind. Many cried. But it was okay. They would remain in silence until every poppy had been placed. Then they would stay in silence a little bit longer, to honour their people whom they had lost in battles.

Even after the moment of silence was finished, very few nations spoke to one another. It wasn't a social gathering. To remember in silence was much easier than trying to share the memories aloud. It was hard to talk through tears.

Most people would find the end of the these gatherings to be the strangest part of them. For when they left, they each took their poppy with them. One poppy at a time, the pile would grow smaller and smaller, as each nation took a poppy back. The nation would take the poppy with them, and when he or she returned to where he or she was currently staying, he or she would take a slip of paper and write on it the memory that struck the most that day. The paper would be attached to the stem of the poppy. No one really knows how this little ritual started, but it is something they all do. And afterwards?

Why, they would throw the poppy out the window. And their memory would find its way somewhere, to perhaps be read by someone who has never, and would likely never experience the horror of war. If asked why bother doing it, many nations wouldn't be able to answer. Perhaps it was to spread awareness of the horrors of war, perhaps to try and prevent them from happening again.

It was a silly idea, but it was enough to merely keep people remembering. As it was a crime to forget.

So they spread their memories, one poppy at a time.

_In Flanders fields the poppies blow_

_Between the crosses, row on row,_

_That mark our place; and in the sky_

_The larks, still bravely singing, fly_

_Scarce heard amid the guns below._

_We are the Dead. Short days ago_

_We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,_

_Loved and were loved, and now we lie,_

_In Flanders fields._

_Take up our quarrel with the foe:_

_To you from failing hands we throw_

_The torch; be yours to hold it high._

_If ye break faith with us who die_

_We shall not sleep, though poppies grow_

_In Flanders fields. _

_~John McCrae_


End file.
